Nelson has highlighted with a yellow marker a portion of this rambling discourse, a meeting for coffee between Talia and Sonia at the club one morning shortly after Talia was indicted.

“She was depressed,” Sonia said of Talia. “She was offended and hurt that anyone could think that she had done such a

thing. She said that life wasn’t worth living. That she had nightmares every night now and that she dreamed of getting away and starting over. She talked about Raul in Rio.”

After the word “Rio,” in the double space above the written line, the cops have scrawled in a heavy hand “(Brazil)”-just in case the reader doesn’t get it. They’ve had Sonia initial this addition.

“They had written to each other recently and he had talked of the weather, and the carefree life there. She had written back and said that she wished she could visit him there.”

The declaration goes on, but Nelson’s yellow overlay comes to an end.

I lean over the railing into Talia’s ear.

“Who’s Raul?”

She gives me a look, like “No big thing.”

“He was the tennis pro at the club. Sonia and I both knew him.”

I can imagine.

Shakers lets the statement drop on the bench and emits a deep sigh, the first sign that this is not going as well as he’d hoped. He will have to play Solomon.

“Your Honor, I think it is clear mat the statements of the defendant made to this witness reveal a deep desire to escape her plight, if necessary to leave the country in order to avoid the situation she now finds herself in.” Nelson is playing the declaration for everything it is worth.

“On the contrary,” I say. “This declaration purports to be exactly what it is. A candid expression of the defendant’s melancholy state as confided to a friend. The fact that she may have dreamed of being free from her current problems is natural, understandable. She told a friend how she felt. That’s all.”

“She wrote to Raul in Rio that she wished she could visit him.” Nelson directs this little reminder more to me than to the court.

I could put Talia on the stand, to explain her comments, to put them in context, but this would seem self-serving to the court, and it would open her to cross-examination by Nelson. He would ask her about Raul, dig for a little dirt, something to go along with a leopard-skin jock strap.

“Yes, but she didn’t go, did she?” I say. “During three months of hammering in the press, when it would have been easy as pie to get a passport and slip off to some far-flung place, my client stayed here and confronted the charges against her. And she’ll do the same now until she’s acquitted.”

Shakers sees that we are making no progress. He looks at Nelson.

“You’ve got to admit, Mr. Nelson”-the judge is holding the declaration up a few inches-“this sounds a lot like coffee-klatch gossip between friends. There are times I wouldn’t mind going to Rio myself,” he says. He makes it sound like this is one of them.

I laugh a little to show my understanding for an overworked judge.

“This,” says Shakers, looking at the declaration, “is not worth three million dollars.”

“Your Honor, the people believe that this declaration evidences a state of mind, that flight is seen as a definite alternative to trial in the mind of this defendant. That, coupled with the fact that she faces a possible death sentence, we believe, militates toward a significant increase in bail.” Nelson is trying to pump a little gravity back into the proceedings.

“And I’ll bet you’ve combed all of your reports and this is the best you could come up with,” I say. “Raul in Rio.” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “This evidences nothing but a woman who has exotic dreams of far-off places. Dreams,” I emphasize, “not present intentions to travel.”

“All right, I’ve heard enough.” Shakers is satisfied that we’re not going to talk ourselves to a compromise, Nelson and I.

“A three-million-dollar bond is out of the question,” he says. “I won’t consider it. I’ve seen the financial statement of the defendant, and while she has considerable holdings, it is unclear whether these could be posted as surety or given as collateral for a bond. The defendant is entitled to reasonable bail.”

Talia is looking at me, smiling. I nudge her with my elbow to drop the grin.

Shakers looks in our direction. “By the same token this is a capital case. While the defendant has no prior record, flight has been known to be perceived as a preferable alternative to death,” he says.

“Bail is set at one million dollars. There will be a two-percent surcharge for any bond by an underwriter.”

Talia’s on my sleeve. “I can’t raise that from the house,” she says.

“This court stands adjourned.” Shakers is off the bench and headed to chambers.

“We can get a bond,” I say. “It takes only ten percent.” This is the premium to be paid to the bondsman who will post the balance in the form of a surety bond.

“The equity in the house is at least $200,000-we know that,” I say. “We should be able to get eighty percent of that amount if we can refinance the second.”

But Talia’s looking at me. She knows the glacierlike speed with which commercial lenders move. She will be in jail for a week, if we’re lucky, and if she can get friends to push the paper along. I don’t even raise the other problems, a guarantor or collateral. The bondsmen don’t give out a million-dollar bond without something held as security-an interest in realty, stocks, your mother, something.

She looks at me. The matron has her by the arm, nudging Talia toward the door. I have, at least for the moment, defaulted on my promise to get her out of jail.

“I’ll get you out,” I say.

“I know you will,” she says.

It is something in her tone, the inflection of her voice. For the first time I think that perhaps this woman has more confidence in me than I have myself.

CHAPTER 21

Harry’s in my office at the bookshelf-lined wall using my codes, too cheap to spring for the subscription to keep his own current. Harry’s library is a forest of repealed statutes and outdated law.

“Where’s Dee?” he asks.

“Given her the afternoon off,” I say. “I need to do a little reading.” I point to the report on my desk and signal that quiet is appreciated.

I open the cover. Under the clear acetate is his letterhead:

SCOTT BOWMAN AND ASSOCIATES LICENSED INVESTIGATORS

Bowman was my own idea; without a word to Cheetam or Skarpellos, over Talia’s muted objections, I have paid him $2,500 of my own money, a retainer. Halfway through the hearing Talia had finally come to realize that freedom was not likely to follow Cheetam’s performance in the prelim.

Bowman does only capital cases. His specialty is penalty phase investigations, the background needed to save Talia from the gas chamber should a jury return a guilty verdict.

While dwelling on the penalty phase may seem macabre at this stage, Bowman has recommended an early start. His advice makes sense. Little things known about Talia’s background now might be woven into our defense, a little preconditioning for mercy if the jury convicts.

Talia had a hard time with this, two lengthy interviews alone with Bowman at his office. Her early life, it seems, is something she would rather forget.

As I read this first preliminary report-Bowman will do a follow-up investigation contacting family and friends for more information-I am struck by just how little I know of Talia’s background. In the first five pages I learn more concerning her life and what motivates her than I gleaned during the months of our relationship.

Talia is part Latina, something she has covered over with Anglicized ways-mastered, it would appear, at some cost to her own identity.

Conscious life for Talia Griggs began during a Monterey Park summer, her first memories coming from age five. She lived with her mother, Carmen, two brothers and a sister in the trackless waste of nondescript duplexes and squalid five-room frame houses that the contractors charitably dubbed “ranch homes.” These structures now litter the east end of Los Angeles County like some sorry architectural bivouac.